


The State We're In

by wocket



Series: Honor Bound [2]
Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Military, Domestic Violence, Dylric, Eating Disorders, Epistolary, M/M, Marriage, Military, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 06:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: Military/College AU. Picks up after "Where Do I Begin" and follows Eric and Dylan through the remainder of Dylan's college years at the University of Tucson and Eric's service in the U.S. Marine Corps.





	The State We're In

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from a Chemical Brothers song. I couldn't get this AU out of my head.

Y2K comes and goes, and the world doesn’t end.

Other than missing Eric Harris with a wild, unyielding devotion, Dylan Klebold’s first two years at the University of Arizona pass with little fanfare.

Eric - who is now a bona fide U.S. Marine - gets shipped out to Fort Gordon in Georgia briefly, but after a month or two he gets reassigned to a permanent duty station at the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center in Twentynine Palms, California, where he’s stationed throughout most of Dylan’s sophomore year.

At the end of the school year, Dylan drives from Tucson to Twentynine Palms instead of going back to Littleton before summer classes start, much to his parents’ chagrin. Eric saves up about eight days of leave, and when Dylan picks him up at the base, Dylan watches behind them constantly like he’s scared someone’s going to stop them from leaving after all. 

They drive south to Joshua Tree National Park, although the crazy part of Dylan wants to stay on the road and keep heading south, down to Mexico. Somewhere they could go and never come back. The BMW rolls past a green sign: Mexicali, 90 miles.

“How about it, Reb? All the way to El Rey,” Dylan suggests, knowing Eric will pick up on his movie reference.

Eric grins and lights another cigarette. He leans between the seats to kiss Dylan, who only turns his head briefly before insisting on focusing his eyes back on the road. 

Eric rolls down the window to ash his cigarette, and upon second thought, leans his head out the window and releases a yell into the wind.

Dylan grins like a madman when Eric pulls his head back into the car.

The sun strikes their cheeks, and for a moment, they are happy.

*

_Hey Vodka-_

_Life as a Basic Communications Marine is pretty, well, basic, although I’m in school right now to become a Data Network Specialist. After two years of training I’ll be able to install and manage data network systems. I’ll need a special security clearance, but once you have that, you’re basically set. Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice, picking this stuff instead of infantry. It's crazy how much my hands itch for a gun. Shit right now is less "oorah" and more "look it's not my fault it's fucking broken"._

_For what it’s worth, “Twentynine Palms” is a massive fake advertisement… I haven’t seen a single fucking palm tree here yet and at this point I think I’ve seen this entire goddamn base. It’s bleak._

_Miss ya,  
Eric_

*

 _8/1/01_  
_REB-_

_Summer classes are underway and they are marginally more tolerable, mostly because there aren’t really enough people to actually fill the classes. You’d be surprised at how empty the campus is. I don’t know if it’s the school or if people just don’t want to be in Tucson during monsoon season. Either way, fuck em, because I get a single room for the semester! The monsoons wreak havoc on the weather here pretty much from June to September. Almost every day there is flash flooding or a massive dust storm (80+ mph winds). It can make getting to classes hell. I guess there are some idiots out there that drive right into the dust storms?? The best part of the monsoons is opening up the window and watching it rain for what feels like days at a time. I smoke a joint, lay down on the bed, and listen to music. That’s about as good as it gets I guess. Still thinking about seeing you out in California and wishing you could have spent a little time here. Your visits are never long enough._

_If I’m not in my dorm room or class I’m at the library, which stays open until 11PM. There’s a great big window on the east side of the second floor - where I am now - and it’s where I write mostly everything to you. I save a seat for you every time (which is a stupid habit I guess). So it’s empty for now._

_Dylan  
_

__

*

A knock at the door of his dorm room on the morning of September 11, 2001 interrupts Dylan from his homework. 

“Holy shit,” Dylan whispers, realizing that his boyfriend is standing in front of him when he opens the door. It’s his birthday, and Eric Harris is right here. _Holy fucking shit_.

Eric is beaming, biting his lip a little, proud of his surprise.

Dylan reaches out with trembling fingers, touching Eric’s arm gently at first, making sure the figure in front of him is no apparition. He’s real and very much solid, and that’s all Dylan needs to grab Eric’s elbow and yank him inside the dorm room. “Get in here,” Dylan says. 

"Dylan," Eric manages to choke, and Dylan realizes for the first time how tightly he's holding his boyfriend. 

"Holy shit," Dylan repeats, releasing him and grabbing his shirt instead, unable to believe that Eric's lapels are in his hands.

"Hey," Eric grins. "Do I get a kiss hello?"

Dylan blinks, and dips his head to press a kiss to Eric's mouth. "What are you doing here?"

"What, did you have plans?" 

"No," Dylan admits. It might be his nineteenth birthday, but his life hadn't changed that much. He'd been working on the same history paper all day long, and he'd planned on getting a late dinner from the grill in the student union. "Let me take this," Dylan offers, reaching for Eric's backpack and stowing it on his desk chair. 

"So this is it," Eric says, looking around the dorm room. Dylan's half was easy to pick out. There's a _Natural Born Killers_ poster over the bed, which is fitted with navy bedsheets. Computer science books and novels are stacked deep on the desk, surrounded by piles of notebooks.

"I can't believe you're fucking here, Reb, Eric, fuck!" Dylan reaches for Eric again and winds his arms around him, knocking him down onto the narrow bed.

"Happy birthday," Eric whispers with a knowing smile. 

They make out on Dylan's bed, hands all over each other, taking advantage of Dylan's empty room until the familiar sound of a key scraping in the lock interrupts them. The boys sit up and pull apart instinctively.

Dylan sits up and smooths a hand through his hair, fixing his baseball cap on his head. 

Eric adjusts his package, hard already just from barely touching Dylan.

Dylan's roommate Ted enters the room; he's got his girlfriend in tow and he seems surprised that Dylan has a guest. "Dylan! Hey. We're just grabbing a couple of things." Ted pokes his girlfriend in the side. She snaps her bubble gum and waves to Dylan and Eric.

"Dylan."

They both stand there like they're waiting to be introduced to Eric, like this is the weirdest thing they’ve ever seen. 

"Oh, sorry," Dylan realizes. "Ted, this is Eric Harris."

"He's real," Ted guffaws. He holds a hand out for Eric to shake before rummaging around his side of the room. His girlfriend keeps her eyes trained curiously on Dylan and Eric. 

“You in the military? You know what’s going on?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eric asks.

“You guys didn’t hear? Shit went down in New York. Turn on a TV or something,” Ted tells them. Dylan starts searching for the remote control.

"Well, bye," Ted's girlfriend says, and the room is empty once more.

Curious, Dylan switches on the TV, turning it to a news channel. An image of an airplane striking the Twin Towers in New York floods the screen, dark smoke climbing into the air. 

“Holy shit,” Dylan whispers, unable to look away. 

Eric scoots forward, pressing himself up against Dylan’s back and resting his chin on Dylan’s shoulder so he can see the TV. His hands sneak around Dylan’s waist as they keep watching the news coverage until they get an idea of what’s happened. As far as they can tell, a series of terrorist attacks have been launched on the United States. Two hijacked airliners have crashed into the towers of the World Trade Center in New York City, bringing the buildings to their knees.

“You were on a plane this morning,” Dylan croaks, unable to look away from the footage. “Holy shit, Reb. You were literally _just on an airplane_.”

Dylan starts to look sick, taking shallow, shaky breaths. Eric can feel him start to tremble in his arms as he starts to imagine the worst, on the verge of a panic attack. Eric grabs the remote control from him and switches the television off.

“Dylan, look at me,” Eric demands. Hands on Dylan’s shoulders, he forces the other young man to look him in the eye. “I’m here. I’m right here.” 

Eric kisses Dylan’s eyelids and pulls him back down onto the bed, letting Dylan curl up and rest his head on Eric’s shoulder. They run their fingertips across each other’s skin, content to merely exist in the other’s presence.

Eric doesn’t know what any of this means, doesn’t understand the implications yet. Does this mean war? Whatever is in store, he suspects the world he will return to after this brief visit will not be the same. 

“I can’t believe _that's_ your fucking roommate,” Eric says under his breath later, after Dylan’s calmed down. Dylan nods. "What a piece of shit."

"He's okay."

"He's an idiot," Eric says. “ _He's real_. For fuck's sake, of course I'm real."

Dylan shrugs. "You can't blame him. I never see you." He picks at a stray thread on his sheets.

Eric doesn't like the way Dylan's playing the victim. He can hear the guilt lacing his voice.

"The Marine Corps is my _job_ , Dylan. It's not a choice."

"It was though, wasn't it?" Dylan says, his voice distant.

Eric starts to burn with anger. He sits up. "Stop," he warns Dylan, trying to stop from rolling his eyes. "Don't do this."

Dylan doesn't say anything. 

Eric pokes his side. "It's your birthday. Come on. I want to take you out. Anywhere you want," Eric encourages. "You don't want to eat?" he asks, when Dylan doesn't get up. His face falls as he wonders what he did wrong - other than signing away four years of his life to the U.S. government - and he sits back against the wall, waiting for Dylan.

"What are you doing?" Eric asks, when he feels Dylan pull him down to the bed, feels Dylan's arms wind around him again, restricting his movement and keeping him held tight.

"Shhh," Dylan hushes, closing his eyes and clutching Eric against his chest. "Can I just -?"

Eric sighs and finally relaxes into Dylan's grasp; Dylan's clearly not planning on letting him go anywhere. His grip is firm and inflexible, keeping Eric immobile in his arms. Eric holds still and lets Dylan do his thing.

"You good?" Eric finally asks, looking up into Dylan's eyes. He sneaks a kiss before Dylan can turn him down.

Moody, Dylan nods. 

"Are you going to let me buy you dinner?" Dylan nods again. Eric leans over him to kiss him again, hoping Dylan can understand what he's trying to say through the touch alone. He tries to cajole him, but Dylan seems melancholy yet. "I have twenty-four hours to spend with my boyfriend. Have you seen him? His name is Vodka," Eric teases, trying to lift Dylan's spirits.

Dylan chooses a burrito place not too far from the University of Arizona campus; it's modest but filling, and it gives Eric a good sense of the local fare. The September sun is blistering hot, but they sit on the patio so they can smoke cigarettes and catch the view of the Rincon Mountains to the east of the city.

It's the best meal either of them have had in ages. Eric watches Dylan eat his chicken burrito and tries to ignore the part of him that thinks maybe they could have had this all the time if he hadn't been so stupid. He could have majored in Electrical and Computer Engineering, or even taken Computer Science courses with Dylan. Instead he'd signed the next four years of his life away to the U.S. Marines, something that would no doubt keep the the two of them at a distance for some time. What was he thinking?

Eric drags himself back to the moment - might as well enjoy it while he can - and he reaches out to steal a plantain from Dylan's plate. 

The walk back to Cochise Hall after dinner is only a mile, but Dylan takes them on a meandering path through the city. Dylan's livelier after getting some food into him, and he points out familiar sights on their slow, ambling walk. Dylan takes Eric by the observatory on a whim, which is nestled in a small grove of orange trees. Neither of them knows much about stargazing, but they think they can see Jupiter and one of its moons on the telescope.

*

Eric crashes in Dylan's bed that night. It's been so long since they've slept beside each other; who the fuck cares if Ted comes back? The two young men strip down to their t-shirts and boxers, and Dylan slides all the way up against the wall to make room in the narrow bed for Eric's body next to his. 

Dylan notices that Eric is more buff each time he sees him; his muscles are rippling out from his sleeves. One of those strong arms finds its way around Dylan's waist under the covers. It takes them a moment to get settled, both of them adjusting their legs between the other's and sliding every which way in the bed. 

"I'm glad you're here," Dylan says, his breath a warm puff of air against Eric's cheek.

"Happy birthday, V."

*

Ted doesn't come back to the dorm room, so Eric and Dylan spend the next morning sleeping in as late as humanly possible. Dylan decides to sleep through all of his Thursday morning classes, a decision he's happy with when he feels Eric nosing sleepily at his throat. 

Eric's gentle touches turn into kisses at the base of Dylan's neck. Eventually Eric wakes up, and he finds a way to have Dylan on his back within seconds. Eric doesn't say anything, just slips Dylan's shirt over his head and keeps pressing kisses along his collarbone, finding his mouth finally.

It's slow and sleepy and warm. Their mouths taste like morning breath, but neither one can be bothered to care. Half-asleep, limbs heavy, Eric kisses Dylan, tangling a hand in his sleep-mussed hair. Sluggish but enraptured in each other, they make out with no promise of anything else, no hint of something more, just their sleepy mouths linked as the hours tick by on the clock. 

Eric's watch goes off at two in the afternoon, and they both sigh. Eric decides to forego a shower so that he can stay wrapped around Dylan for another ten minutes. 

Dylan stays in bed while Eric packs his backpack. He’s about to throw on a clean shirt when he spies one of Dylan's Chemical Brothers t-shirts folded over the back of a chair. Eric looks over his shoulder to make sure Dylan is still resting, then snatches it, pulling it on over his head. He crooks a finger in the neck and smells the fabric, getting a good whiff of Dylan’s laundry detergent. Perfect.

Eric slips his olive green jacket on over Dylan's shirt, then brushes his teeth using a bottle of water. Minty fresh, Eric leans down beside his boyfriend. He presses a long, open-mouthed kiss to Dylan's mouth, slipping his tongue inside Dylan's and sliding it across the top of his mouth, his teeth, his tongue.

"Wakey wakey," Eric sing-songs.

Dylan reaches one long arm out and swoops Eric back into bed.

"Hey!" Eric struggles, rolling out from under Dylan. "I don't like this one bit more than you do."

"I find that hard to believe," Dylan disagrees. Dylan's not stronger than Eric, but somehow he finds a way to keep up, using his lanky limbs to his advantage. "What happens if you don't show up?"

"You mean desertion?" Eric tussles with Dylan's elbow but Dylan crawls on top of him. "I get court martialed."

"That's no good," Dylan says. "What if you get kidnapped?"

"You got something in mind?" 

Dylan drops all his dead weight on Eric, slapping his hand over Eric's mouth. Eric's dark eyes light up, accepting the challenge, and Dylan presses down harder, blocking his nose and mouth. "I know a guy," Dylan hisses rather menacingly, pressing even harder, watching as Eric's eyes started to go glassy.

Suddenly Dylan releases his hand, removing the obstruction to Eric's airflow. He replaces his hand with his mouth just as suddenly as Eric gasps for air, trying to seek it in Dylan's mouth. 

Eric clutches at Dylan's shoulders, and his watch beeps again.

*

Dylan drives Eric twenty minutes to Tucson International Airport, where they say goodbye with the practiced, casual hugs they reserve for the public. 

"I'll have leave at Christmas," Eric promises, whispering the words into Dylan's ear before they pull apart from each other. It's not that long, compared to some of the other stretches of time they've had to wait - it's just over three months.

Dylan seems relieved at that, although he never looks happy to part with Eric. He fiddles with the ring on his left ring finger, looking somewhere between Eric and the floor.

"Watch yourself," Dylan murmurs. It's a queer warning, but Dylan's been in a funk all weekend. 

Eric wishes he could kiss Dylan on the cheek. He reaches his palm out and covers Dylan's baseball cap with his hand like a spider, instead, desperate to touch him somehow. It's the best he can manage inside the crowded terminal. He catches Dylan's blue eyes, bites his own lip.

"Soon, okay? Soon," he repeats, maybe more for himself than Dylan. 

Eric turns and walks through security. Dylan finds it hurts to watch.

*  
  
_September 26, 2001_

_Eric,_

_Everything on the news recently - since my birthday - freaks me out. What are the odds that we were together in Tucson? You were on a plane that day too. Don’t get me wrong, I love that someone is showing America business. Our stupid capitalist society deserves a wake-up call. But I keep thinking about something happening to you, and it makes me fucking sick. Please don’t hate me for this; you can burn this letter or whatever. But I have to know you are okay. I didn’t think this would be so hard. I’d be so fucked up if something happened to you. Three and a half months until Christmas. Three and a half months until I can hold you again._

_Yours,  
V_

*

_Dylan —_

_I can’t believe that shit happened on your birthday >:( I can’t really talk about what’s happening here but shit got real serious, real fast. I’m glad we’re both halfway across the country._

_I meant it when I said I’m always coming back to you, okay, nerd?_

_REB_  
_10-2-01_  


*

 _10-31-01_  
_Eric,_

_Happy Halloween!_

_I am fucked up! Went to a fancy house party in the foothills with the most liquor Ive seen in my entire life. I’m talking bottles and bottles and bottles, of everything. Not shitty college beer either, liquor. It was glorious. Feels good to say fuck all this shit and get trashed._

_Laterz,_  
_Vodka_  


*  
_  
V-_

_Thanksgiving on base was disappointing. I think it's worse that they try to make it special. There is no way to dress up that food, no matter how hard you fucking try._

_I have some news, and it sucks. I don't even want to tell you but it was inevitable, I guess. I'm not coming home for Christmas. I'm getting deployed the second week of December. Afghanistan. That's all I know right now. This is what it's all about, I suppose. The moment of truth._

_I'll write you whenever I can. Don't do anything too crazy, V._

_REB  
11-28-01_

*

The Christmas holidays are lonelier than Dylan expects. No longer buoyed by the hope of seeing Eric over Christmas, Dylan retreats into himself. He flies home to Littleton to spend the vacation with his parents, who notice something is wrong after only a few days. Dylan's not eating well, not sleeping well, and he seems on edge, maudlin.

Sue sits Dylan down in the kitchen with a cup of tea in a noble attempt to glean what afflicts him. As far as she can tell, it's not school, and it's not home, and she doesn't know what else there is.

Dylan slumps over his tea, dejected, not really listening to his mother’s line of questioning. He looks at the blank space on his ring finger where Eric's ring should be - he only ever takes it off to hide it on a chain around his neck when he comes back to Colorado - and wills time to move faster.

*

Dylan wants desperately to write Eric a letter, to send him something for Christmas, but he’s got no idea where in the world his boyfriend is. So he waits.

*  
__  
_January 21, 2002_  
_Dylan,_

_Shit is too real. The fucking scummy thing is that I was actually enjoying training. That database stuff and operating systems... that's the kind of stuff we were doing before getting called out here. It's funny, I guess some of the shit we're working on is more similar than I thought. Do you like any of it or are you just, you know, going through the motions? Anyway, I thought California was bad... this shithole is worse. Winter is so fucking cold, and it feels like it’s getting colder. It snows all the time, and the air hurts to breathe. It’s sharp. The holidays were quiet and they just came and went without much noise. It feels like we’re waiting for something. Waiting for the snow to melt, waiting to find out what’s happened while we’ve just been sitting here._

_Anyway, now you have the address of this garbage heap. I await your deep collegiate thoughts Mr. Klebold._

_REB_  
  
*

_2/14/2002  
Eric, _

__

_It's going to be an interesting semester. Pretty much everything is in my major... Object-oriented Programming, Database Design, Principles of Operating Systems, and Data Visualization. I foresee lots of time in the computer lab. After this I only have two more semesters to graduate... That doesn't seem possible. It’s better than high school but I wouldn’t say I like it. Sometimes I think you made the right choice by not going to college._

__

_I spent Christmas missing you more than I thought was actually possible. If anyone had any idea how sad I am…_

__

_KMFDM is releasing a new album in March, “Attak”. I guess that's something to look forward to._

__

_Dylan_  


*

_Vodka —_

_Our camp is a big walled compound built to accommodate about 120 people (there are maybe 200 of us here now). On one side of the camp is a city stretching out in the distance, and on the other side, all you can see are mountains. Everything is brown. Lifeless. It's hard to breathe - I don't know if it's the air or the compound, but I haven't been able to catch my breath since I got here. The facilities are cramped and dirty and there never seems to be enough air conditioning, or food, or enough of anything._

_I'm tired all the time; there's more shit to do during the day than we have hours for. We train all the time and patrol daily. Right now I'm posted on fire guard, which is just a night shift where you're the only person awake and everyone else is sleeping. I'm stuck at a desk but at least it gives me some time with you. I lie awake at night most of the time anyway (and I thought it was bad back when I could still get some sleep…). I'm just trying to blend in with the rest of these motherfuckers. A few days ago I was low on sleep, just not feeling like myself, and I got into a fight. The other guy threatened to kill me. I couldn't fucking believe it; months of this shit and the first person to threaten my life isn't even a haji but another fucking grunt. Torres pulled us apart before I could break the guy's jaw. I guess that's one court martial I don't need._

_Fuck Yeah KMFDM... it's been too long._

_After this ends I want to spend a ~~week~~ month holed up in bed with you. I think I deserve it. I'm not going to let shit get to me though, this is the whole point. Please send me anything you can. Photos, Slim Jims, cigarettes. It all helps. I wouldn't say no to toothpaste either._

_Eric  
3/3/2002_

*

During Eric’s deployment, Dylan finds it hard to stay busy, which he knows is his best option. Instead, he takes long naps in his dorm and sleeps through his morning classes. He stops going to the few functions he gets invited to, and takes to drinking vodka alone in his dorm room most nights of the week.  

Eric's letters become few and far between, and Dylan imagines the worst in place of no news at all.

By spring break, it's clear that Dylan's GPA is suffering. Dylan is suffering. He's drinking more than he ever used to, something compounded by the fact that he's not eating regular meals or sleeping, either. His card for the dining hall sits unused in his wallet, ignored in favor of his fake ID. On a good week, the wallet holds only one or two receipts from the liquor store.

The depression clings to Dylan like a shadow. He loses weight without Eric encouraging him to eat, and the dramatic loss of weight in his face is heightened by the fact that he's been walking everywhere on campus in a sweater in the heat instead of using his car to get around. He's been doing that a lot lately, telling his parents that it's good exercise. Healthy.

Dylan sends a picture of himself to Eric in March, and Eric has to frown and scrutinize the photo even though Dylan is actually smiling in it. He’s wearing a dark gray University of Arizona hoodie, one that hides the shape of his body, though Eric can see his shoulders are slighter than usual. His face is thin, and his cheekbones are more pronounced than usual. In the photograph Dylan looks like he’s lost at least nine, maybe ten pounds since the last time Eric saw him on his birthday. 

Eric feels a twinge of guilt, like maybe he could be doing something, maybe he could be there and feed Dylan a sandwich or a steak or fucking something, but knows he has to focus on his job.

The next photo Dylan sends doesn’t make him feel any better. Dylan is shitfaced in that one. His eyes are glassy and blurry and his cheeks are red, and Dylan can barely focus on the camera. He’s offering up a peace sign, and he just looks so out of it that Eric doesn’t recognize him. He looks like he’s on something, some kind of drug, maybe. Eric’s not sure if this is better or worse than the last photo he sent, but it’s _Dylan_ , so he traces the outline of his face with his thumbnail and tucks the photo away with the others.

*

Dylan sleepily drags himself over to his dresser. Ted had woken up half an hour ago and he'd woken up at the sound of the alarm, too, unable to fall back asleep. Dylan starts rooting through drawers for an appropriate t-shirt. He grabs a black one and pulls it over his head, frowning at the way it fits around his shoulders. He pulls at the fabric then strips the shirt off, looking for something bigger in the drawer. He knows he's got an extra-large in there somewhere. 

Dylan seems more satisfied with the bigger shirt, but still sucks in his stomach uncomfortably when he checks himself out in the mirror that sits atop the dresser. He adjusts the mirror about an inch, unhappy with his reflection, then puts the mirror face down so he doesn’t have to look at himself.

Dylan’s first stop of the day is the dining hall. He spends more time looking at food than eating it. He walks past the waffles, past the omelettes, and past the pastries to the cereal dispensers at the end of the cafeteria. Uninterested, he fills a bowl halfway up with dry Cornflakes.

Dylan reads a dog-eared copy of his Operating Systems textbook as he idly munches on the cereal, more focused on the book than breakfast.

It’s a short walk to class after he finishes eating. Checking his cellphone, he sees that he has five minutes before class begins. He drops his backpack off in the classroom before slipping off to the bathroom.

Dylan checks for feet under each stall before picking the handicapped restroom. Dropping to his knees, he sticks two fingers down his throat with a practiced motion until he’s emptying the contents of his stomach in the toilet bowl.

*  
_  
Dylan -_

_Our patrol today took us just outside Kunduz, to a "military graveyard" called Bala Hissar. I wish you could have seen it. Dropped in the middle of the dirty hills are old Soviet tanks and militia equipment - birds, artillery, anti-aircraft weaponry. They have the stars on them and everything (I took a picture on a buddy’s camera for you). The Afghanis consider it a memorial to the years of civil war from 1989-1996. It's maybe the best thing I've seen since I got to this alien landscape. I'm sick of shooting, sick of IEDs, SICK of praying my legs don't get blown off on the road. It’s not brave or courageous, it’s stupid. Two days ago three guys from our patrol died in an IED explosion in one of the FOBs about two miles away. These days it feels like my mind is only good for strategy and for getting things done, accomplishing orders. I don’t know how to explain it._

_In happier news, a few days ago we got a delivery of new uniforms. Changing into fresh clothes made me want to cry. I felt clean for the first time in weeks._

_Have I told you lately how fucking bad I want to crawl into your arms?_

_Eric  
4/19/02_

*

Eric’s latest letter comes at just the right time, during a particularly brutal wave of Dylan’s depression. Dylan checks his mailbox on a whim on his way home from class, thrilled when he sees both a care package from his parents and an envelope postmarked from Afghanistan.

The small care package sits ignored on Dylan’s desk while he tears into Eric’s letter. The back of the paper has a couple of drawings of tanks, and a few other scribbles. Dylan loves when Eric sends little cartoons, and he loves when Eric lets himself be vulnerable. While Eric speaks his mind and never holds back, he doesn’t always express vulnerability in his words the way Dylan can. 

Dylan grabs a pen and starts working on his response, the care package still untouched.

*

_Hey Reb,_

_Thanks for writing again. I was starting to worry about you. Just kidding. I worry about you all the fucking time. :-| I have become extraordinary at both worrying and drinking, drinking and worrying. In fact so good that most of the time I am doing both. Do you think animals can die of loneliness, or is it purely a human punishment? I used to read the news and Google all of the places you were living. Between your letters and some of the shit I’ve seen I just can’t do it anymore. Not because I don’t want to know what you’re up to - never that._

_Life seems kinda pointless. Not necessarily anything good or bad. Wake up, go to class, take notes, rinse, repeat. Geometric Algorithms is the bane of my existence. School is tightening its grip and all I ever think about is how far away you are. FUCK… I wish I could see you... even just to lay there. I would kill someone with my bare hands to see you again, I mean it. Existence without you is... it just isn't. I have nothing to live for but you, not even this stupid degree. It's a Bachelor of Science - literally BS!_

_Yours,  
VoDkA_

*

_Hello from Krapahar,_

_I cannot believe you choose to live in a desert, man._

_You know one thing I fucking hate?? SUBMISSION. You are told to do everything here. I am no longer human; I am property of the U.S. government. I’m nothing more than a little green army man. Plastic pieces, movable. Forget about self-discipline and self-reliance or the land of the free. Collateral value._

_I would murder someone for a grilled hamburger, with a slice of juicy tomato and lettuce and French's mustard. Nothing else to report. Except that I miss your dumb face and that prickly pear juice you like._

_REB  
5/18/02_

*

The bottom of Eric's letter depicts a little cartoon with a stick man holding a gun. Dylan tapes it to his wall.

*

_5-27-02  
Yo-_

_SCHOOL'S OUT  
I am doing abso-fuckin-lutely nothing this summer. No school, no work, NO SHIT! My parents look at me like I'm crazy but if I can't have you, I'm not interested in doing shit, either. So I'm going to fuck around Littleton for two months and it's going to be glorious.  _

_If I'm honest, there are a few things I want to do, but this is between us:_  
_1\. build a computer_  
_2\. apply for an on-campus job_  
_3\. read fight club  
_ _4\. drink screwdrivers daily_

_Missing you... but what's new about that? Hope you're kicking ass and taking names._

_Waiting for you,_  
_Dylan_

*

Dylan breezes through _Fight Club_ and decides to wrap up his copy of the book for Eric, sticking it in the small cardboard box along with a letter, two packages of Slim Jims, a box of Kamel Reds, and a red Bic lighter. For good measure, he adds a few envelopes stuffed with blank paper so that Eric will get the hint and write him back.

Something still feels incomplete. Dylan decides to take a goofy picture of his face. He sneers into the camera then prints out a shitty 4.0 megapixel picture of his face, folding up the paper and slipping it inside the book. 

Dylan knows Eric's address by heart now, and he writes the overseas address neatly on the outside of the box. He'll take it by the post office in the morning.

*

Sue offers to drive Dylan by the post office when she sees the box labeled with Eric's name sitting on the kitchen counter. Dylan agrees; it's only a ten-minute drive from his parents' house.

When they reach the post office, Dylan hops out of the car without a word to mail the package.

Five minutes later, Dylan gets back in the car with a receipt, fidgeting with it the whole way home. 

Sue watches his long fingers play with the thin paper. She wants to calm her son, but doesn't know how. Sue puts her hand on top of Dylan's, a small gesture of solidarity, and hopefully, comfort. His hand tenses underneath hers until she goes to pull it away.  

*

 _6-28-02_  
_Eric,_

_I'm sorry I can't keep it together. I miss you more than I thought was humanly possible. Do you ever think about this stuff? Do you think about the stars, and if we're looking at the same ones? I see the night sky and I want to rip the stars down. The sun burns and the stars burn and so do I, every single day that you're over there._

_Life is weird, existence is weird, and I’m sick of doing this without you._

_Yours, forever,_  
_Dylan_  


*

_7-4-2002  
Dylan-_

_Yesterday our patrol took us an hour north of the local district to a village in the hills, the kind of place outside the wire we don’t usually make it to, the kind of place where there are rumors of Taliban sympathizers. The buildings were shit, stuck off the sides of the hills, made of mud and thatch and what looks like fuckin garbage to me. We were only thirty minutes into the patrol when we got called back to base. Suicide Bombers. We drove back right away, sand kicking up everywhere, hanging over all of our men in a dirty haze._

_We were waiting in line to drive back onto the base when I saw a truck drive past the last vehicle in our convoy - I couldn’t look away. We were caught in an open field more than 80 meters from the treeline when shit hit the fan. We rallied and ran forward. A group of soldiers at my front laid down suppressing fire as hell - pure hell - broke loose. It took almost 30 meters to make it to cover._

_I’m done. So done. All I could think about was getting out of there. I used to be reckless. I used to think it wouldn't matter if I died, but I’m not coming home to you in a body bag, Dylan. I just want to make you proud._

_Love,  
Eric_

*

Dylan, true to his word, does fuck all that summer. He mopes around Littleton, and while he sees a few old friends from high school at the bowling alley one weekend, he mostly stays at home. By the end of July, though, he’s achieved the remainder of the few goals he kept on his list: he drinks a screwdriver every single day, and he applies for an on-campus job (and receives an offer). Senior year looms in the distance.

*

_Eric,_

_Senior year approaches… Well well, so much has changed, who'd have thought a Greek Mythology class would turn out to be one of my favorites. It's a welcome break from Systems Programming and UNIX and my Comparative Programming Languages course, which run into each other in a whirling mass of source code._

_Do you know the myth of Alcyone and Ceyx? They were so in love, they were godlike. Alcyone and Ceyx were renowned for their love so much that the gods decided they had to be punished. Zeus (asshole) struck Ceyx with a thunderbolt, and Alcyone was wrecked. She threw herself into the sea to die with her love. The world was cold and empty without their love in it, and Zeus felt like he fucked up. So he transformed Alcyone and Ceyx into halcyon birds so they could be reunited again. They tried to make a home - their nest - on the beach, but the sea washed everything away. Zeus took pity on the lovers again and ordered the winds and waves to be still during the week of the winter solstice - halcyon days._

_Sometimes I don't know why I'm here. I know I'm supposed to earn this degree (and I will), even if it’s just for the sake of making a living. Is there anything bigger? Some more important purpose? Some reason? I don't know. I don't think so. But it gives me something to do while I wait for you instead of throwing myself into the ocean so I guess there's that._

_I took a job in the poetry center this semester. It's just work study, but it feels good to earn a little money again. I probably should have started working a few semesters ago but it's too late to change the past now. Like I said before, who knew how much a change of pace makes a difference sometimes. I mostly work in the library (which is a small but "internationally renowned" collection - apparently)._

_Love you,_  
_Dylan_  
_9-20-02_

*

_Dylan -_

_Konnichi wa, motherfucker!_

_Okay so I’ve heard Okinawa is one of the worst Marine bases but I sure am excited to be out of the desert. It’s hot as hell here, but at least there’s a fucking ocean. I’m stationed at Camp Schwab, located about halfway down the island on the southern coast near the city of Nago. From the city, you can reach the forest or the coast. The best part is the Warumi Ohashi, a bridge that goes to Kouri Island over the bluest water you’ve ever seen. Or maybe it’s the_ izakaya _. I don’t care - I’m not in the desert!!_

__

_Oh, I got promoted to Lance Corporal. Hell yeah!_

_Eric  
10-1-02_

*

 _Lance Corporal_ , Dylan reacts, _I like the sound of that_. His heart swells with pride when he reads Eric’s letter. Not only was Eric in the Marines, he seemed to be thriving. Maybe he’d found his calling after all.

Dylan buys a cigar to send to Eric as a congratulatory gift. He stuffs two Slim Jims into the box, like he always does, and adds a poem with his letter.

*

_REB-_

_OORAH! So fucking proud of you <3  
頑張ってください_

_-Dyl_

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough  
to truly consecrate the hour.  
I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough  
to be to you just object and thing,  
dark and smart.  
I want my free will and want it accompanying  
the path which leads to action;  
and want during times that beg questions,  
where something is up,  
to be among those in the know,  
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,  
never be blind or too old  
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.  
I want to unfold.  
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;  
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.  
I want my conscience to be  
true before you;  
want to describe myself like a picture I observed  
for a long time, one close up,  
like a new word I learned and embraced,  
like the everyday jug,  
like my mother's face,  
like a ship that carried me along  
through the deadliest storm.

_-Rainer Maria Rilke_

*

Eric finishes his deployment during Dylan’s senior year. He gets out from being in country a few days before Christmas - a total surprise - and much to Dylan’s delight, Eric flies into Denver on the afternoon of December 23. 

Dylan lets Eric’s parents pick him up at the airport, though it drives him half crazy to wait. He drives over to their house on Reed Street after dinnertime, where Eric greets him in front of the garage. They spend so long hugging each other in the driveway Dylan thinks they might not ever go inside.

*

Dylan spends Christmas Eve the next day with the Harris family, to Sue Klebold’s great disappointment. She follows Dylan around as he packs a backpack that morning, astonished that he’s actually considering spending Christmas at someone else’s house, too.

“We are paying for your college education; the least you can do is come home at Christmas to see your family.”

“I haven’t seen Eric in months,” Dylan protests, continuing to stuff clothes into his bag.

“Bring him over here if you have to,” Tom steps in to support Sue. “But you’re going to be a part of the family Christmas.”

“Fine,” Dylan snaps.

*

The Klebolds - plus Eric - sit down late on Christmas morning to spend time together and open presents. Dylan had purchased a book on sculpture for his father and a set of tile coasters for his mother - simple, unassuming gifts. Byron is enthusiastic when he unwraps a pair of Colorado Rockies tickets. 

Dylan feels a little bad about how he’s treated his parents this week when he unwraps a brand new digital camera. It’s a 4.0 megapixel Canon PowerShot G2 with a zoom, one of the better ones on the market. He genuinely loves it, and it surprises his mother when he thanks her with a hug.

Dylan buys a copy of the Doom Collector’s Edition for Eric, even though his real gift is a daring blowjob in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve at Eric’s house that leaves Eric begging for Dylan’s mouth.

Eric gives Dylan two CDs; Röyksopp’s _Melody A.M._ album and _Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots_ from The Flaming Lips. Dylan’s never heard of either band, which makes him doubly excited to listen to them both. The best part of Eric’s present is a shiny tactical knife wrapped inside a U.S.M.C. t-shirt that Dylan almost misses. It’s a jet black pocket knife with a stainless steel blade, and Dylan falls in love with it immediately. He can’t stop running his fingers over it, fidgeting with it since he can’t take Eric’s hand.

They eat honey-baked ham and glazed carrots and mashed potatoes for lunch, and after the meal, Byron follows his brother Dylan onto the porch, watching as Dylan searches his pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

“So how are things going with Eric?”

“The fuck?” Dylan asks, sticking a Marlboro menthol between his lips with his thumb and forefinger. They’d never been much for brotherly bonding.

“He spent Christmas with us, Dylan, come on. And you, um… you’re wearing a ring.”

Dylan looks down at his left hand. Sure enough, the silver band that he usually slipped off his finger any time he visited home was still shining proudly. He’d gotten so used to wearing it at college - where nobody knew or cared what it meant anyway - that he’d forgotten to stick it on the chain around his neck when he came home for winter vacation this year.

“Mom said you guys were really close still but it’s more than that, isn’t it?” Byron asks. Eric had barely left Dylan’s side since coming back to Jefferson County. Byron hadn’t seen the two apart in a long time; when the Harris boy was in town on leave, he was with Dylan Klebold, and that was that.

“It is what it is,” Dylan responds uncomfortably.

“Okay, little brother,” Byron chuckles. 

Dylan watches silently as his brother disappears back inside their parents’ house.

*

Dylan’s parents spend that evening at some schmaltzy production of _The Nutcracker_ , which gives the boys the house to themselves.

Dylan’s been messing with his new camera since he unwrapped it earlier that morning. Lying in bed, he turns the camera on them both, sliding a little bit closer to Eric. It’s a little bit easier to wield than Eric’s old videocamera, and he’s able to get them both in the frame. He snaps a few photos, looking over at Eric with a peeved look when Eric puts his middle finger up in front of his face to block Dylan’s shot.

“Hey,” Dylan grumbles, reaching for Eric’s hand, trying to push it out of the photo.

Eric snickers and fumbles with Dylan’s fist.

“Just let me get one,” Dylan pleads under his breath, hoping Eric doesn’t hassle him for wanting a photograph.

Eric just snatches his camera, pulling it from Dylan’s hands.

“Hey! Eric,” Dylan says again, thinking he’s going to resist, but Eric starts holding the camera up and pressing buttons.

“Let me do it,” Eric insists, pressing a little closer to his boyfriend (purely for the sake of the framing of the shot). 

Dylan looks over at him and Eric snaps a photo, taking him by surprise. Dylan looks at the camera again and Eric takes a few more. A smile finally settles on Dylan’s face when he realizes Eric is going to humor him and let him get what he wants.

Eric reaches the camera up higher, snapping a photo of their heads facing each other on the pillow. 

“How do they look?” Dylan asks him self-consciously. “Like, are we even in the photo?”

Eric sneaks a peek at the screen, blocking the view from Dylan. 

“Let me see.”

Eric shakes his head no. “You look good, V.”

Dylan huffs. _Right_.

Eric sits up suddenly, crawling to the end of his bed. He holds Dylan’s digital camera to his eye like a real photographer, framing Dylan’s face in the shot.

“What are you doing?”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Eric says, snapping photos of Dylan. The other boy tries to get up, but Eric pushes him back down with a hand on his collarbone. 

Dylan looks to the side, sheepish and flustered. Nervously, he touches his neck with his left hand, the gleam of his black onyx ring a dulled shine compared to the clean silver band - Eric’s ring - on his ring finger. Eric takes a photo of that, continuing to play photographer, pleased with the way the light catches the ring.

“Fuck, V - take off your shirt.”

Dylan thinks it’s a ridiculous request at first, feeling too seen, too visible and vulnerable, but then he spots the rock-hard erection that Eric is sporting in his black jeans and trying really carefully to hide. He pulls off his shirt.

Dylan feels bolder, riskier, _sexier_. He dips his left hand under the waistband of his pants, moving slowly, knowing Eric is watching his every move.

“ _Jesus fucking Christ_ ,” Eric swears, eyes stuck on Dylan. He takes another photograph. “Come on,” he begs.

Dylan keeps moving, keeps unbuttoning his pants. 

Eric is snapping photos less furiously now, taking his time watching Dylan’s painfully slow movements. Finally the ring disappears beneath his waistband and Eric simply can’t take it anymore. He drops the camera - to Dylan’s dismay - so that he can run his hand across Dylan’s bare chest.

Eric leans over Dylan and kisses him. Dylan’s eyes sink shut and he arches up into Eric’s hands, relieved to finally be touched by his boyfriend, his love, his everything. Eric tastes like Kamel Reds and home.

Dylan’s free hand splays across Eric’s neck; he scratches his short fingernails against the skin there. He opens his mouth for a filthy, dirty kiss. 

Eric straddles Dylan, grinding their hips together.

“Do you know how much I missed this?” Eric breathes. Dylan shakes his head no. “Don’t be coy, you fucker,” Eric howls under his breath, annoyed at how quickly Dylan gets him going. With a gentle thrust, Eric brings their erections together, hands reaching out for Dylan. “I’ve been deprived,” Eric complains. “Do you see what you do to me, V?”

Dylan smiles at the familiar nickname. He pulls Eric’s shirt over his head, tossing it to the side and dropping kisses across Eric’s chest. “Mm-mm,” he denies. “Show me,” he asks, and Eric pushes him back down. 

Eric finds Dylan’s hand and presses it to his rock-hard dick over the fly of his jeans. “You get the picture?”

Dylan’s hand closes over Eric’s dick. “Why are you still wearing pants?”

“The fuck, why are _you_ still wearing pants?” Eric replies. 

They both shimmy out of their dark jeans, dropping them beside the bed. It’s hard to tell who gets their hand on each other fastest, palms skimming across bare skin.

Eric starts jerking Dylan off, working his hand around his cock like it was his own. His hand feels fucking amazing, but Dylan wants more. He puts his head between Eric’s legs, lapping at his cock before taking him down his throat.

“Oh, fuck, your mouth,” Eric whines, fisting a hand in Dylan’s golden curls. 

Dylan lets Eric be as rough as he wants to, clinging to Dylan’s hair and shoulders. Dylan’s mouth is soft and sweet, and his lips close over the head of Eric’s penis skillfully. Afterward, when he’s wrought an orgasm from Eric, Dylan smirks at his boyfriend, still riding the adrenaline from his own release. He takes a deep breath, watching Eric wipe the cum off his hands.

"I'm taking a shower," Eric announces.

Dylan frowns. "Aw," he starts. He'd secretly hoped they might cuddle for a little bit, even if that wasn't one of Eric's favorite things to do.

Eric puts his hands on his hips. "Well? Are you coming?"

Dylan scrambles out of bed after his boyfriend and follows him into the bathroom.

Dylan watches as Eric turns the faucets as hot as they will go. He feels a little self-conscious following Eric into the shower - they've never done this before - but as limited as their time together was, maybe it made sense to conserve both time _and_ water.

Eric stands under the hot spray, rinsing off thoroughly before gripping Dylan's hips and steering him under the water.

Eric watches as he leans back, soaking his blond hair under the steady stream of hot water. Eric passes him the shampoo, which he lathers up on his own hair first, then drops a dollop onto Eric's head.

Eric closes his eyes and moans when Dylan scrunches his fingers over his cropped hair. Dylan presses his fingers against his skin, dropping his hands from his hair to his neck, massaging Eric's shoulders. 

Eric murmurs his approval. Dylan's fingers are like magic. This wasn't exactly what he had in mind when he lured Dylan into the shower, but it's a damn good feeling. Dylan works at the knots and sore spots in his neck until he's leaning forward against the other young man, limbs feeling like spaghetti. 

Eric hums another murmur of approval, his face drooping against Dylan's chest. Dylan moves his attention down to his lower back, working at the base of his spine and his hips. When Dylan has sufficiently reduced Eric to jelly, Dylan drops a kiss on the top of his head and moves him back under the water. 

It feels incredible when they trade places, the water cascading down Eric's body and trickling between their chests. Eric's going to have to find a way to get Dylan to do this more often. 

Dylan smiles, an open-mouthed, beautiful smile, one that spreads wide from cheek to cheek. "All good?" Dylan asks Eric. He seems proud of his handiwork.

Eric can't manage an answer - his lips won't form any words despite his effort - but he flexes his fingers where they're pressed against the taller boy's hip in the hopes of answering his question.

After Dylan washes the product out of his hair, he turns the shower off. He grabs a towel and throws it around Eric's shoulders before taking one for himself.

Eric borrows a pair of clean boxers and follows him into bed, where Dylan gets the rest of the physical affection he'd been hoping for. Eric clings to his side until they hear the footsteps of Dylan’s parents echo in the house.

*

For New Year’s Eve, Eric and Dylan go out to Rampart Range with a bottle of whiskey, a sawed-off shotgun, and a box of illegal bottle rockets that Dylan managed to score from an old high school friend. They set off the bottle rockets first, lighting them all at once in a little clearing. It's amusing, but barely scratches the itch. After another round of shots, they pull out the shotgun.

Dylan watches Eric shoot the shotgun a few times, but Eric comes clamoring back over to him. "I get this shit all the time," he says. "Let me see you." He passes the gun to Dylan.

Dylan tries to remember the tips Eric showed him last time; the stance, the grip. He's not really shooting _at_ anything, just the treeline, but he's determined to look good doing it.

When he peeks at Eric out of the corner of his eyes, Eric is biting his lip. _Good_ , Dylan thinks. He holds the gun out for Eric, taking the other young man's hand and pulling his watch into view. 11:57 PM.

Dylan reaches into his BMW and turns the car stereo on, and [“Orange Wedge" by the Chemical Brothers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HU1IPgOn_L0) starts to ooze out of the speakers. He starts bobbing his head to the groove, turning back to Eric. Dylan doesn’t dance (as a general rule), but he can’t resist the music and the way that Eric is looking into his eyes. Swaying, he reaches for Eric’s hips.

Eric’s strong arms wind around Dylan’s waist, keeping his body close as they start to grind against one another to the music.

Above the canopy of trees, the fireworks in Clement Park to the northeast sparkle and flare. It's midnight, or something close to it. Dylan presses his mouth to Eric's, feeling regretful about how little he had taken advantage of their last summer together. He'd give anything to spend a week with him again, fucking around, drinking, playing video games and making out.

The song ends, but Dylan doesn't let Eric stop kissing him. It's 2003, and nobody can see them here.

*

Dylan sleeps over at Eric's house that night, and it feels like they're back in high school. Dylan's so pleased to be in bed with his sweetheart that he falls asleep almost immediately. Not too long after, Eric starts sweating in his sleep, struggling with the covers.

“Reb!” Dylan snaps instinctively, but Eric doesn’t wake up. There’s an uneasy, stricken look on his face, his mouth twisted into an unhappy line. “Eric,” Dylan says, shaking Eric’s shoulder. 

Eric blinks his eyes open, and they dart around the room aggressively as he gets his bearings. His hand snaps around Dylan’s wrist, seizing his limb painfully, holding him back from truly reaching Eric.

“Eric. Eric, it’s me,” Dylan whispers. 

Eric starts to settle, responding to his boyfriend’s voice, and drops Dylan’s wrist like he’s been burnt.

Dylan winces, flexing his forearm. Eric’s fingers had left red, raw marks on his skin.

"You were dreaming, I think," Dylan tells him.

"I don't dream anymore," Eric tells him coolly, but his words haunt Dylan. It's not fair, for Dylan to be off in the land of Nod and for Eric to be stuck on a brutal battlefield inside his head.

"Can I do anything?" Dylan asks, feeling useless.

"Just..." Eric doesn't want to say it. 

Dylan reaches for him, sliding a hand across his chest and pressing his palm to Eric's heart. The beat was steady and intense. He could feel Eric suck in a deep breath of air, trying to bring his pulse down. 

"Don't go back to sleep. Not yet," Eric manages to request.

Dylan drums his fingertips against Eric's chest. It scares him to see Eric scared. Keeping his eyes open, he tries to acquiesce as long as he can, trying dutifully to hold himself from the vise of sleep but failing in the end.

*

Dylan finds a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey on top of Eric's desk in the morning. Eric is missing. 

Dylan pulls on a pair of socks and a University of Arizona hoodie, making sure his cigarettes are tucked into the pocket before going looking for his boyfriend. 

After checking the living room and kitchen, Dylan finds Eric sitting outside cross-legged on the porch, chain-smoking cigarettes as the sun rises above suburbia. There’s alcohol on his breath, and a sour look on his face.

Dylan sits down next to him, and their knees brush companionably. Dylan doesn't know how to do anything other than be there, if Eric decides to need him.

Eric licks his lips and passes him his cigarette.

*

_Eric —_

_Holy shit, last semester. Can you believe it? I’m finishing up with Computer Security, Algorithms, Software Development C++, and a poetry class. This is it - the last classes I’ll ever take. WOO!! Other than poetry, I’ll be living in the Gould-Simpson Building (where all the Computer Sciences classes are held). It’s a ten-story hulk of a building; if you go all the way to the top you get a great view of Tucson._

_So this might sound stupid… do you know anything about meditation? Have you ever tried it? I don’t think I can stand being with myself that much, but I’ve heard it gets better. So I guess every time I have a cigarette it’s a smoking meditation now. It’s supposed to clear your mind and shit, which I understand may not be possible. I don’t think there’s anything that could ever really do that._

_I know you’re in Asia now, which is a mind fuck, but every time I put your address on a letter I squee that you are not in Afghanistan. It’s hard to explain. It just makes me feel better, although nothing will really make me feel better until you are out. We are going to be unstoppable._

_∞  
Dylan_

*

In April, Dylan decides to buy Eric a webcam with video capability for his birthday. He ships it - along with a copy of Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_ \- to Eric's overseas address.

The smile Dylan sees on Eric's face when they finally get a video chat going warms his heart, and he knows the gift was worth every penny. Eric doesn't stop smiling the entire time they talk. The webcam streams and they maintain a chat in the browser simultaneously.

_[REB: hey sexy ;)]_

_[VoDkA: fuck you]_

_[REB: i mean it]_

"You look good," Eric admits out loud. Dylan has taken to wearing a small gold hoop in his left ear instead of the three-barred cross he used to wear in high school. It’s more fashionable, a little more chic.

"You look..." Dylan breathes back. "Fuck, it's so good to see your face."

Dylan's motives purchasing the webcam were purely innocent, but he realizes the sheer potential of the gift when Eric starts chewing his lip and looking at Dylan hungrily.

_[REB: take ur shirt off]_

"No," Dylan responds out loud, modestly.

_[REB: come on]  
[REB: let me see you]_

Dylan frowns but reaches for the hem of his shirt. 

"Show me, V," Eric breathes. 

Dylan pulls his t-shirt over his head and leans back in his computer chair.

_[REB: do you know what i'd do to you if you were here]_

Dylan shakes his head no.

_[REB: fuck]  
[REB: i'm so hard right now]_

Dylan's hair falls in his eyes and he blushes.

_[REB: show me more]_

Dylan can't believe what Eric is asking. It seems embarrassing, and risky, too. He glances at the clock - his roommate should have class for another hour, at least.

_[REB: please]  
[REB: pleeeeaaasseee dylan]_

Dylan reaches for the button of his BDUs and Eric stares, his eyes dark and focused. Dylan feels empowered by the heady gaze Eric keeps trained on him, never looking away. Dylan reaches into his pants slowly and works a hand around his cock, pulling it free.

_[REB: !!!!!!!!!!!!!]  
[REB: baby]_

Dylan presses his thumb to the slit and watches Eric watch him on the screen. 

_[REB: let me see let me see]_

Dylan slides his jeans down his hips, pushing them halfway down his thighs - not too far, but far enough to let Eric get a good view - and Eric lets out an audible gasp. Dylan palms himself casually, stroking himself with a lazy touch.

_[REB: harder]  
[REB: you can do better than that] _

__

Dylan grips himself with a firm hand, obeying Eric's typed commands. He works himself harder, faster, watching Eric getting more frantic and more jealous with every touch.

_[REB: wish i could taste you]_  
_[REB: yer sooo hot]_  
_[REB: want you on your knees]_  
_[REB: i'd fuck you so hard, you don't even understand]_

Dylan murmurs, increasing the pressure on his dick. He's close, and Eric's sentiments only push him closer to the edge.

_[REB: you close??]  
[REB: fuck fuck fuck]_

Dylan nods impatiently, thumbing the head of his dick and twisting his wrist before gripping himself and coming over his hand and stomach.

Dylan's instinct is to hide himself, but Eric leans forward. "Let me see," he insists, and Dylan leans back so that Eric can see the mess he's made. Dylan licks the come from between his fingers, and Eric fucking _whimpers_ at that. Dylan feels a smug self-satisfaction as his eyes focus on the clock. Almost seven. 

"My roommate will be home soon," Dylan whispers. “I’m sorry.”

"Okay, okay," Eric finally relents. 

Dylan's so eager to clean up that he almost misses Eric's last message flash across the screen.

_[REB: i love u]_

*

In May of 2003, Eric uses a chunk of his leave and flies from the Marine Corps base at Okinawa to Tucson, Arizona to watch Dylan walk across the stage at his college graduation. It's a hot, sweltering day; the sun's heat bakes the earth until Tucson reaches triple digits.

Eric joins Dylan's parents inside the Arizona Stadium to watch the ceremony. They're pleased to see the progress Eric has made, and the way he seems to have matured since senior year at Columbine. Tom and Sue Klebold ask him questions about the Marines which Eric answers with pride. He's never really noticed how easy it is to talk to Sue, and he's grateful for the ease with which he navigates the morning's communication with Dylan's parents. It's almost easier than talking to his own.

Eric messes with Dylan's digital camera during the ceremony so that he can try and get some photographs. The stadium is massive, though, and Dylan's head looks like a tiny pinprick in each shot. 

After the ceremony, it's easier to find Dylan than expected. He'd grown another inch during the summer of his junior year and now stood at almost 6'5", heads above the crowd (much to Eric's chagrin, who had only sprouted up another half-inch or so during his training). His blond hair curls out every which way from underneath his graduation cap. He cuts a tall, imposing figure in his royal blue gown, and Eric is reminded that he's only grown more handsome during his years of college.

Dylan lets out a whoop when he sees Eric standing with his parents. Sue and Tom have been waiting for hugs all morning, too, but Dylan bypasses them immediately and goes straight for Eric. It's a grand surprise - the last time Dylan heard from Eric, he'd still been stationed in Japan.

Sue - who took over camera duty during the ceremony before Eric could flip out and chuck the camera at someone's head - thinks fast and raises the camera to her eye, snapping a photo of the two young men embracing tightly.

"Congratulations," Eric says into Dylan’s ear.

"It's over," he says, all relief, no taste of bittersweet.

"I didn't get any good photos," Eric complains. "Just your tiny fucking head."

Dylan puts his hand on the back of Eric's neck, and for a second Eric thinks he might kiss him in front of his parents, in front of the school, in front of everyone. He doesn't though, just beams at his boyfriend, and Eric mimics the gesture, putting his own hand on Dylan's neck. 

Sue keeps snapping photos the whole time.

Dylan's awareness opens up, and he seems to notice his parents for the first time. Taking a break from Eric, he gives his mother a big hug.

"We're so proud of you," she says, delighted at the sight of him in his cap and gown. Unable to help herself, she tucks a strand of Dylan's blond hair behind his ear. Dylan doesn't shrug away from her hand, and she feels another glimmer of pride at that.

"Thank you," Dylan responds genuinely, shaking his father Tom's hand. Tom claps him on the back proudly, echoing his wife’s congratulatory sentiments.

Sue makes them pose for every permutation of photograph possible: Dylan, Dylan and Eric, Dylan with his parents, all of them together. Dylan participates patiently, letting his mother take every photograph she thinks she needs. He keeps smiling, though whether it's because he's done with university or because Eric Harris is standing in front of him is unclear. 

Dylan poses again with Eric, his fingertips scratching against the base of Eric's spine, the small, familiar motion hidden from the camera’s lens.

*

Dylan shows everyone around Tucson after lunch. After four years, he's got more than a working knowledge of the city, and guides his guests not just through the campus, but restaurants, parks, wildlife. He points the Museum of Art out to his father and the Pima Air and Space Museum to Eric; it's the kind of thing his family would be into. 

Dylan's parents are wandering around when Eric catches his wrist and tugs him underneath the shade of a secluded tree. Dylan is reminded of Eric's graduation from boot camp, of that moment after a long separation where he'd pressed him up against the side of the barracks and kissed him in the shade. 

Eric reaches into his pocket and pulls out a loose silver chain. The chain catches on Dylan's sunglasses as Eric tries to loop it over Dylan's head. 

Dylan shakes the chain free, and a dog tag falls around his neck. He takes it between his fingers to inspect it more closely. It's a standard issue dog tag, labeled with Eric's full name and blood type. Dylan runs his thumb across the raised imprint that says _Eric Harris_.

"I meant what I said," Eric tells him. He knows the gesture of his gift will mean as much to Dylan as it does to him. "I'll come back for you. Always."

"Six more months," Dylan states, like it's the first time he's allowed himself to count the time until Eric gets out of the Marines.

Eric checks over both shoulders to make sure no one is looking before pressing a soft, swift kiss to Dylan's lips.

*

Dylan’s parents rent two hotel rooms on the outskirts of Tucson that night, one for themselves and one for the boys. While Tom and Sue unwind at the hotel bar, Eric and Dylan lock themselves in their hotel room, leaving one of the two beds completely forgotten.

Dylan flops down onto the bed furthest from the window. "I can't believe it's over."

Eric sits down on the edge of the same bed and pokes Dylan's ankle. He looks exhausted.

Dylan feigns a yawn. "I'm sleepy," he pretends, peering at Eric from under one eye.

"Oh no," Eric says, getting wind of Dylan's plan. He squeezes Dylan's thigh, crawling his way up Dylan's body. "I'm not done with you yet," he says, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Dylan's cheek. 

Dylan twists and catches his mouth. It's their first _real_ kiss in ages; the peck under the tree didn't count.

"Do I have your attention?" Eric asks.

Dylan nods, and Eric slides his fingers underneath his t-shirt, rucking it up his chest so that he can drag his nails down Dylan's pale skin. He follows his ministrations with a kiss, and Dylan reaches for Eric with a slow desperation; he seems drunk off his touches. He moves his hands over Eric's skin carefully, feeling every ripple of muscle under his palms.

Eric sits up so he can strip his shirt over his head. Dylan similarly struggles out of his own and then their bare chests are sliding together, still a little sweaty from the heat outdoors. 

Eric closes his eyes, lost in the kiss, reveling in feeling his boyfriend's hands on him after so long without.

Dylan’s hands move to Eric’s ass, giving it a firm grope. Eric bites his neck playfully then stares him down at Dylan with the most stupid, adoring look. “Tell me what you want,” he requests, looking at Dylan hungrily.

“Want you,” Dylan says vaguely. 

Eric mouths a hot kiss below Dylan’s ear, nipping at the skin.

“Want me how?” Eric presses, gripping Dylan’s cock and giving it a squeeze. Dylan’s lips part.

“I want you to fuck me,” Dylan pants, scratching his nails down Eric’s back.

Pleased with that answer, Eric flips Dylan over, reaching for his waistband and yanking his jeans down. He grinds his clothed crotch against Dylan’s ass, pushing him into the position he wants him in. “This what you want?” Eric growls into his ear.

“Yes, fuck, yes,” Dylan agrees, rocking his hips back, searching for friction. Dylan almost doesn’t remember what it feels like to have Eric inside him. 

Eric slips out of his pants and crawls into place behind Dylan. He grabs his blond hair and shoves his head down against the covers, watching the long line of his back stretched out in front of him. Dylan’s so tall and he’s started to figure out how to move more dexterously in his own body now, how to hold himself and how to keep from looking gangly.

Eric’s starting to finger Dylan when he has a sinking realization. “I don’t think I have a condom,” he admits, working a second finger inside Dylan. It wasn’t exactly something he kept on him anymore.

Dylan looks at him over his shoulder. “It’s cool,” he says. “I mean, if it’s cool with you…” he trails off.

Eric spits on his hole, works a third finger in, stretching him open. It’s been so long since they’ve fucked, Dylan is so _tight_.

Finally, blessedly, Eric is sliding his dick into Dylan’s ass. Eric’s whole body shudders as he presses into his boyfriend, starting to rail into him, hands clutching at Dylan’s narrow waist. 

Dylan’s knuckles are white where he’s grabbing the pillow. Eric can’t hear what he’s murmuring; it sounds sort of like a chorus of _please_. 

After a few deep thrusts, Eric rolls Dylan over onto his back, mouthing at his jaw. “Shh,” he whispers, since Dylan’s apparently forgotten his parents could be back inside the room next door. Eric presses a line of searing kisses to Dylan’s jawline, his teeth catching on Dylan’s skin. 

Eric pushes back inside Dylan, winding the fingers of his left hand with Dylan’s right and keeping him pressed against the bed. His eyes look almost black in the dark, but Dylan’s so far gone he can barely make eye contact anymore. When Dylan finally does manage to catch his eye, Eric stares him down, wanting to own him, to possess him.

Eric burns with affection. It’s been so long since they’ve been able to take their time with each other, and Dylan’s body feels right underneath his. 

“You know how often I thought about this?” Eric asks him. “How often I thought about you?”

Dylan shakes his head no. 

“Every fuckin’ day, V,” Eric says breathlessly. “Shit.”

Dylan clings to Eric’s shoulders, unable to form words. 

Eric rolls his hips, fucking Dylan harder. He presses a rough kiss to Dylan’s mouth and reaches between their bodies to take Dylan in hand, pumping his cock in his fist. Dylan rocks up into Eric’s hand, yearning. 

Dylan doesn’t remember who comes first, just remembers spilling over Eric’s fist at about the same time Eric loses control, gripping Dylan’s hip with his free hand and forcing himself deeper with a few powerful thrusts. Eric buries himself inside Dylan completely, groaning against Dylan’s skin as he comes.

Love-drunk and fucked out, Dylan settles naked against Eric’s chest after a few lazy kisses. “This okay?” Dylan asks.

Eric strokes his fingers across Dylan’s back. It’s more than okay. It’s everything.

*

The next day, Eric joins Dylan on the thirteen-hour drive back to the Klebold house in Colorado before he flies back to base. Dylan plans on moving in with his parents for the summer, at least until he gets a job.

Dylan lets Eric control the playlist (no hardship - he just picks KMFDM and Chemical Brothers and to Dylan's surprise, a few tracks by DJ Spooky).

For the first time, they talk about what the future might look like as the desert rolls past the open windows of the BMW. Dylan's a college graduate, and in just a few months, Eric will be out of the Marine Corps (well, he'll still have four years of reserve, but he won't have to deal with living on base or deployment, if he's lucky).

"I was thinking... what about Phoenix?" Dylan knew neither of them wanted to stay in Colorado. Besides, he'd liked the desert, and Phoenix was a major metropolitan city where there would be ample jobs in tech. 

“I don’t want to sound like an idiot,” Eric says, “but you tell me which city to fly into, and I’ll be there.”

Dylan smiles at that. ”We can rent an apartment outside the city for like, four or five hundred bucks."

"An apartment?"

"You don't want to live with me?" Dylan looks horrified, like this is the first time he's ever considered the fact that Eric might not want to immediately move in with him after getting out of the Marine Corps. He'd just always assumed they'd be roommates, naturally.

Eric smirks. "Of course I want to live with you, dumbass," he chides Dylan. "I just mean... I've been living in base housing for years. I'm sick of living in a box. Let's get a house," he suggests casually.

Dylan looks over at Eric, relieved. "I like the sound of that."

*

That summer, Dylan successfully lands a job as a network administrator for a mid-sized law firm in nearby Lakewood, Colorado. His parents don't make him pay rent, so he socks away a considerable portion of his income away in savings. Anything he earns gets put back, even the sweet stretch of overtime he works over Labor Day weekend. 

Dylan requests catalogs from real estate agents around Phoenix, catalogs that he hunts through with little success. Dylan thinks he's looked forever with no luck, and that's when he spots it. It's a squat, one-room bungalow on the west side of town with a wide covered patio that stretches around the entire tan stucco house. There's room for two cars in the driveway and a small fenced-in dirt yard, about half an acre. Dylan looks at the next photo - the inside of the home has terra cotta tile and large glass windows that remind him of his parents' house on Cougar Road.

Dylan creases the page of the magazine. A house will be more expensive than an apartment, but Dylan's been obsessed with the idea since Eric brought it up. There are less than eight weeks until Eric gets released, by Dylan's estimate. Eight weeks until they can be together again. Eight weeks until Eric is going to move into that house with Dylan.

*

Dylan doesn't work up the nerve to call the real estate agent until two weeks before he gets ready to move to Phoenix. The agent tells him there's already an offer on the house and Dylan thanks him for his time, chucking the catalog into the trash can. 

What a stupid idea.

*

_Eric —_

_Well, here we go. I’m officially launching into post-college life, into the “real world”. I’ve been applying for jobs in Phoenix all summer and I got offered two. One is a network administrator position and the other is a job at a small software development company. I’ve weighed everything out, looked at all the pros and cons, and I’m taking the job with the software developer. It’s almost $1,500 more a month and sometimes I can work from home. Plus it just sounds cooler._

_I’ve got a house on Thunderbird Boulevard. I’ve been moving in all week (but leaving plenty of room for you, don’t worry). We almost didn’t get the place but the realtor called me at the last minute saying the last people fell through. So I don’t know who the hell they are, but I’m glad they’re out of the picture because it’s nice. It really is Eric. So I hope you like it._

_I never want to write you a letter again.  
COME HOME!_

_Love,_  
_Dylan_  
_9-5-03_

*

Dylan watches the status change from In Transit to Arrived on the flight tracker. Standing outside the gate, he waits and watches for Eric.

After waiting for almost half an hour, Dylan pulls the Post-it note with the flight number out of his pocket. Sure enough, it matches the number on the board, but people have stopped coming down the hall.

Something bitter rises up in the back of Dylan's throat. Something’s wrong. Surely, this is wrong. Eric would have told him if he'd gotten a different flight. 

Dylan sits down and waits another fifteen minutes, just in case. As each minute passes, he becomes more certain that Eric Harris is not going to be walking down that terminal today.

*

There's a blinking red light on Dylan's answering machine when he gets home. He hits play automatically, a matter of habit. It takes a minute to recognize Eric's father’s voice on the other line, but when he does, he rushes back to the telephone, listening intently.

_"Dylan... this is Wayne Harris... hope you're doing well... I uh, hate to reach out to you like this, but Eric said he needed to let you know, said he - uh - said he wanted to make sure you knew he was okay. His troop got into a bit of a firefight in Khost and Eric got clipped by a bullet. He's okay; he's in a hospital in Kandahar, recovering. Says he's holding up okay but wanted to make sure you got his message. You can reach me at 303-762-1212…”_

Dylan doesn't listen to the number; he still knows it by heart. He plays the message again, listening to Wayne's voice over and over.

What were the odds? It was Eric's last week in Afghanistan. Eric's last week in the military. By all rights, he should have been on an airplane to Phoenix.

Numb, Dylan tries to make sense of what he just heard.

*

_Hey Dylan,_

_Well this sucks. I should be with you and I'm laid up in a hospital bed in Kandahar. I almost made it... Been here for three or four days already which feels like enough but they're not letting me out yet and I don't know why. The first day I was pretty disoriented, but I got shot. What do you fucking expect? Anyway, by day three I could really hold my head up and look around, and looking around at this place, I'm lucky. Some of these guys are FUBAR. There's some kind of mandatory decompression period after we get shipped home but then after that, I'm just looking out for my flight window._

_I hope this is the last fucking letter I'll ever have to write anyone in my goddamned life. I'm on my way._

_REB_

*

Eric insists on moving in with Dylan when he's discharged from the hospital in Kandahar, though Wayne and Kathy Harris find his plan suspect and want him to come back to Colorado. Eric should have broken the news to them sooner, because Dylan’s been waiting every day for four years for this. 

Eric's been waiting a long time for this too, and he's not going to let a little bullet stop him. A bullet which struck Eric's left knee and took a surgery to remove, a bullet that left him spending five lonely, angry days in the hospital.

Dylan is almost afraid to go to Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix after the last time, but his heart is lifted when he finally spies Eric. He's hobbling on a pair of crutches, and he looks more tired than Dylan's ever seen him. 

Dylan's waited years for this, and the last few, slow steps that Eric takes feel like the longest wait of all. 

Eric leans his crutches against the wall and walks right into his arms, and Dylan seals him up in the tightest hug of his life. There are so many things to say, so many feelings, but with Eric in his arms none of them seem to matter anymore, and he tells him the only thing he can think of.

"Let's go home."

*

Dylan had left up the "WELCOME HOME" banner he'd put up weeks ago; Eric knows he's trying to be nice but there's something weird about being welcomed home to someplace he'd never even seen before.

The painkillers make Eric cranky, but Dylan aids him back to health, playing an excellent nurse. He learns to dress Eric's wound; it's not so different than caring for the angry red cuts he carves into his thigh on nights he's feeling helpless or particularly far away from Eric. 

Dylan cares for Eric quietly, trying to ease Eric's rocky re-entry into civilian life as much as possible. He makes sure Eric's keys are where they need to be, he puts Eric's gaming laptop in the exact same spot every day, and he starts leaving Post-it notes around the house so Eric can write things down to aid his forgetful memory when Dylan begins to understand that Eric doesn’t remember as much as he used to.

Dylan cooks and he cleans and he holds Eric in the middle of the night, as much or as little as he needs to be. He’s perfect for Eric, in so many ways. He listens when Eric tells him that he wants to die, that his memories and his nightmares and the smell of blood exhaust him at night.

“Will you talk to someone? Will you get help?”

Dylan’s questions are small and frightened, but Eric refuses.

*

The sink breaks on a Tuesday, an event causing Dylan to realize that while he hasn’t hidden the fact that he owns their house, he may have forgotten to mention it to his boyfriend.

“Just call the landlord, dude!”

“We don’t have a landlord,” Dylan responds coolly. He was going to figure out how to fix the broken sink if it killed him.

“What do you mean? Call the management company, whatever.”

“That’s not how it works,” Dylan replies, still meddling with the pipes under the cabinet.

“What?” Eric asks confused. “Wait, do you _own this house_?”

“I saved up enough for a down payment the summer after I graduated.”

“Holy shit,” Eric exclaims. “You own our house.” Dylan’s not sure what difference it makes, but Eric looks proud. He looks at Dylan with a new sort of respect, like he possesses some new competence. “That’s so fucking hot, dude,” Eric tells him, which is a bit of a surprise. Eric was still the same guy after joining the Marines, but he did seem to have a new appreciation for practicality. "I've got to get a job," Eric says after that, leaning on his crutch and staring out the big, beautiful windows of the living room. 

"You've got to get _better_ ," Dylan corrects him, coming up to stand behind him. He trails a hand down Eric's back. "Don't push yourself."

"I'm fine," Eric snits. 

Dylan is hurt when he yanks away from Dylan's touch. They don't talk about Eric's injury much, but Dylan knows it bothers him all the time. Dylan can't suss out what's worse, Eric's pain or his perceived shame of needing so much help upon his re-entry to the free world. Dylan loves him, though, always has, maybe since before he ever really knew what to call that tendril of affection that curled like a vine around his heart every time Eric looked his way. Taking care of Eric is just another way to show him he loves him, so it comes naturally. 

Dylan sets out Eric's medicine and breakfast every morning before he leaves for work and brings home whatever takeout Eric wants for dinner. Dylan hasn't convinced him to leave the house, yet - but that's a step down the road. Dylan is happy when he can get Eric to the dinner table. 

The little bungalow that Dylan thinks will be their savior becomes Eric’s torment, his prison. It’s not a place of pure happiness. Dylan’s never known Eric to be scared of anything, but he doesn’t like leaving. He’s exasperated and angry, and he doesn’t want to do anything or go anywhere. 

All Dylan knows is that life feels dark.

*

On the second anniversary of Eric’s move into the bungalow outside Phoenix, Dylan gets a letter from work announcing his transfer to a new location in Santa Cruz. He sells their little house and they start looking for a new place to live in California.

Dylan searches with no luck; Eric is actually the one who finds the place. It’s halfway between San Jose and Santa Cruz, more of a cabin than a house, nestled among the redwoods off Highway 9. It’s so vastly different from their bungalow in Phoenix though roughly the same size; the cabin has vaulted wooden ceilings and wooden floors, lots of natural light, a deck that wraps around the house, and a bedroom on the first and second floor. Room to grow.

Dylan’s not sure about the house at first, but when he sees the way Eric settles when he steps onto the deck, he knows immediately that this is going to be their home. When Eric looks back at Dylan over his shoulder, Dylan knows they will do this a thousand times. 

This time, Eric’s name goes on the mortgage, too. 

Dylan is taken with the loft-style bedroom at the top of the stairs, but Eric’s leg is still problematic so he turns the space into an office, and they move their stuff into the bigger bedroom on the first floor. By the time they finish moving in, Dylan can’t imagine living anywhere else. The house is quiet, and feels tucked away in the woods, which is better for Eric. He needs room to breathe and space to think. Something about being in the cabin feels like getting away despite its proximity to the highway. 

After finagling with the self-timer on his digital camera, Dylan snaps a photo of himself and Eric standing in front of their new home, arms around each other’s shoulders. It’s a good photo, and Dylan marvels at how odd it is to see himself looking so happy. They _both_ look happy.

On a whim, Dylan e-mails his mom a copy of the photo, although he doesn’t know how to caption it. Who knows what she’ll think - but Dylan thinks it might please her to see the caliber of his smile.

*

Dylan knows something is up when Eric disappears into their bedroom around eight o'clock in the evening. He gives him space at first - he's learned to do that these days - but can't help poking his head in the doorway to check on his partner.

When he looks in, he sees Eric already in their bed, curled up on his side. There's a strained look on his face. Dylan bends down beside the bed to look Eric in the eye.

“Fuck, man,” he says, instead of asking Eric how he feels. He can tell that Eric is in pain. His cheeks are red, his hair matted from sweat, and Dylan spots bite marks on his arm from where Eric had been trying to distract himself from the pain. Dylan sits on the edge of the bed, hesitant to touch Eric. He reaches for somewhere unoffensive - his shoulder - and his heart melts at the look of relief on Eric's face when he does touch him. "Is it your knee? Or the nightmares?"

"Knee," Eric grunts.

“Are you gonna sleep?”

“If I can,” Eric musters.

Dylan climbs into their bed, taking up the space behind Eric. He pulls Eric’s head into his lap and strokes his cropped hair. The lines on Eric's face soften until another burst of pain blooms inside his leg. Eric thrashes, and he digs his fingernails into his own wrist.

“Squeeze my hand instead,” Dylan tells him, desperate to take away Eric's pain.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Eric groans under his breath. His fingers flex around Dylan's arm anyway.

“You won’t,” Dylan insists. Eric is being stubborn. "I just want to help you," he whispers between them, even if there's no point in saying it out loud. 

"Stay with me," Eric mumbles. It's the sort of thing he only lets slip out when he's under the influence of his pain medication. 

Dylan strokes the curve of Eric's jaw before sliding his hand back up into Eric's short hair. Of course he'll stay. It's not even a question, but it makes Dylan wonder where Eric imagines he might go.

*

Eric's been feeling dark and capricious lately, wounded and unpredictable. Things get worse when he receives an e-mail from a former Marine buddy heralding the death of one of their former platoon mates Torres. They hadn't been close, but they'd fought side by side, and they'd trusted one another. Torres had drunk himself into a stupor and hanged himself in a hotel bathroom.

That night, Eric starts tearing through the house, looking for his shotgun. He rages when he doesn't find it in the usual place. His heated anger stirs, not knowing if his mind is working against him again or Dylan.

"Where is it? Where the fuck is it?" Eric screams, pushing Dylan up against the fridge so hard that magnets start dropping to the floor. His eyes are dark and inflamed, and he's going at Dylan with a mad look that Dylan's never seen before.

"It's safe," Dylan tells him. He locked the shotgun up in a lock box two weeks ago after hearing Eric say he wanted to die, not knowing if it was for his own good or Eric's.

It's the wrong answer, and Eric grabs Dylan's arm hard enough to draw blood, pulling him into a figure-four choke. Eric lets out an inhuman noise that sounds like the harrowed shriek of a mountain lion.

"Fucking tell me!" Eric rants. 

Dylan manages to slip out of Eric's grasp by virtue of his height alone. He never wanted to leave Eric by himself, not like this, but he has to escape, has to get out of this pressure-cooker of a house. He pushes Eric off him - ducking out of the way as Eric punches his fist into the wall - and slips outside onto the patio.

Dylan fumbles for a cigarette, trying not to cry as he lights it. He stares into the redwoods that surround their house as he pretends not to hear whatever it is that Eric is breaking inside.

*

Eric wakes up in the hospital, and Dylan isn't there. 

Eric figures out soon enough that it's because he's in a mental hospital, and he's been admitted under a 5150 hold. The next 72 hours are miserable. Eric's never felt more like a zombie, and he's sick of people asking him questions. The only thing he really remembers is downing an entire bottle of sleeping pills without even leaving a note. 

At the end of the third day, Dylan is there to pick him up in the same beat-up BMW he's had since high school. He's got a change of clothes - black jeans and a KMFDM t-shirt - and Old Spice and Eric's sunglasses, and he does his best to help Eric feel human again.

Dylan doesn't say a word on the drive home to their cabin in the redwoods, but there's a little mountain store on the road back to the house, and Dylan pulls the car into its tiny parking lot. He doesn't make any move to get out of the car and go in, though, he just sits there with his hands on the steering wheel. Looking at Eric now, he can't stop the words from bubbling up.

"Do you know what it felt like to wake up next to you like that? Thinking you had died beside me, and I wasn't there for you? I couldn't save you? I've never felt so useless in my whole life." Dylan is shaking. For the first time Eric wonders how he actually ended up in the hospital, if Dylan called an ambulance or dragged him into his own car. "Before you left for boot camp, you told me this wasn't the end. You told me this wasn't the fucking end!"

Eric picks at a scab on his wrist.

"You're letting them kill you."

"That's rich coming from you," Eric mutters under his breath.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I know how many fucking times you've tried to kill yourself, that's all."

"Fuck you," Dylan hisses. "I went to see someone. I got help." Eric furrows his brow at that - he didn't know Dylan had spoken to someone about his depression. It seemed... well, it seemed like an adult thing to do. "And no, Eric, you don't know how many times."

Eric is dismayed by Dylan's statement. The gap between them is wider than he thinks. Maybe Dylan is referring to some random time in high school, but he gets the feeling that the comment is in reference to something more recent, something Eric clearly doesn't know about. Whatever. He doesn't _want_ to know about it.

"I don't know what to tell you, man. It's like there's a stranger sleeping in my bed but it's just me."

Dylan looks at him with sad eyes, like he knows how he feels. He's felt the stranger's presence too.

Dylan starts the car again and finishes the drive home.

*

Dylan deals with their new normal as best he can. He takes most of it in stride, adjusting to Eric’s needs wherever and whenever possible, but there are days it gets to him, nights where his heart is burdened by memories of a past that is no longer alive.

Dylan tries to keep his pain private to avoid from burdening Eric further, but on some nights, the tears find a way to flow.

"What the fuck?" Eric asks, walking into the living room after waking to the sound of someone crying. Dylan is hunched on the sofa in the dark, shoulders bent and face bowed. Distraught. "What the hell are you doing, Dyl?"

Eric hobbles over to Dylan, wincing as he tries to avoid putting weight on his knee. He sits down beside his boyfriend, unsure what to say.

"What's going on?" Eric murmurs. "Dylan?" he probes when he gets no response.

A hoarse sob punctures the silence.

"Sometimes it’s like you're a different person, Eric. I don't know you," Dylan whispers into the dark. "You don't tell me anything. You don't even look at me."

Eric tries to push aside the anger that roils up inside him, feeling guilted by Dylan’s words. "I don't like talking about that shit. You know that," Eric argues, defensive. 

"But you don't talk about _anything_ ," Dylan continues. "I waited for you for four years. Sometimes it feels like you don't want to have anything to do with me. For fuck’s sake, I don’t even know what happened to you.”

Eric wants to pretend like he doesn't know what Dylan means, but he knows he's a piece of shit. He doesn't know why he can't talk to Dylan like they used to. He doesn't know what's holding him back, why he needs to sleep closer to his gun than to his boyfriend.

Exhausted, Dylan leans back against the sofa. He's been holding it together too long, keeping everything welled up behind the surface. Trying to be strong for Eric - for them both - is harder than it looks. 

"I don't deserve you," Eric croaks. 

It's true. 

*

A few days later, Dylan finds a mix CD sitting on top of his wallet one morning before he goes off to work. He pops it into the stereo as he makes his coffee, and the familiar sound of Orbital's "One Perfect Sunrise" greets his ears. He smiles. Eric knew Dylan loved Orbital.

Dylan remembers to grab the CD and take it with him to work, listening to the songs that Eric picked out on his drive downtown. “We’re In This Together” by Nine Inch Nails, “Alive Alone” by the Chemical Brothers, “Angel” by Massive Attack. He gets what Eric is trying to say to him. Eric might not be able to talk to him but if he can tell Dylan what he feels using music, for now that would have to be good enough.

*

Dylan gets Eric out of the house that weekend by some small miracle. They make a special trip to Blockbuster and Dylan quietly delights as Eric picks out movie after movie. He rents a handful of new releases and some 1980s science fiction flicks, and Dylan is disappointed that he doesn't get more. It's been so long since he's seen Eric engage with anything but a cigarette and his anger.

There's a leafy patio with an iron bench and a fountain in front of the video store; Dylan eyes it jealously and pulls out a Marlboro Menthol before Eric can dash back to the car. The two men sit side by side in the sun.

Dylan edges closer to Eric and passes him a cigarette. He stretches out his legs, hoping Eric will do the same, and he's pleased when Eric mimics the gesture.

Dylan notices Eric eyeing a Chinese take-out place on the other side of the plaza. He knows it might be foolish to suggest they go in, but he drops the idea anyway, stunned when Eric agrees. They sit at one of only two tables in the place and split an order of orange chicken and steamed dumplings. 

They talk companionably while they eat, and Eric even manages to laugh at one of Dylan's dumb jokes. It's a sound Dylan hasn't heard in ages, but one he finds marvelous, nonetheless.

*

After they finish one of the movies Eric picked out that night, Dylan is surprised when Eric grips Dylan's thigh and kisses him, sliding his tongue into Dylan's mouth. 

They kiss and kiss and kiss - Eric starts pressing his lips to Dylan's with an intensity he hasn't seemed to possess in a long time. Eric initiating things catches Dylan off guard - not only has it been a while since they'd fooled around, it always seems to be Dylan starting everything these days. 

Eric reaches for Dylan with a renewed fervor, winding a hand in his curls. Soon enough he's straddling Dylan's lap, and Dylan can't get his hands full, stealing kiss after kiss.

Dylan strips his own t-shirt off, tossing it away from the sofa, and Eric winds his arms around Dylan's neck, throwing himself into another kiss and grinding against the taller man. Dylan's hands scramble for the hem of Eric's shirt, pushing it up so he can press warm hands against Eric's skin. He swallows Eric's growl, licking into Eric's mouth. 

Eric is kissing him like a dying man, and Dylan can hardly take it. He's missed this, missed Eric. A few seconds later he has Eric's shirt gone completely, too, and their bodies are close, pressed chest to chest.

Eric makes a well-timed thrust of his hips and Dylan falters. "Shit," Eric mumbles. "Come on," he mutters, pulling Dylan toward their bedroom.

Belt buckles clink as they unfasten them and jam their pants and boxers down their legs. It's not a race, but it might as well be, the way they clamor to pull their clothes off. Dylan stumbles free from his jeans, stepping out of them faster than he has in a year. 

Dylan feels Eric reaching out for him in the dark. Eric kisses him on the mouth, white-hot and resolute. His palms slip over Dylan's skin with reverence, mapping out every inch of his skin, and Dylan shudders within Eric’s grasp. He's been longing for this, longing for a day where the Eric Harris who came back to him resembles the Eric he remembers saying goodbye to.

As one, they move to the bed.

Eric bites at Dylan's hipbone, working a purple hickey onto the skin. Moving lower, he uses his mouth to ply Dylan, licking a dirty stripe along his cock. He adds a hand into the mix, stroking Dylan to hardness, though he's not far from it, then puts his head between Dylan's leg and sucks his cock with a willful determination. 

Dylan's hands scramble at Eric's back, against bone and tendon and muscle, trying to pull him even closer. He touches Eric's head, fingers tracing his fragile skull.

After another burning kiss, Eric pulls back a little, trying to get a glimpse of Dylan's eyes in the dark. "Can I - can we -"

"Yes, _yes_ ," Dylan agrees, knowing what he wants without letting him finish his question. 

Eric sits up and searches through a bedside drawer for a condom. After stretching Dylan open on his fingers, he puts the condom on and presses into Dylan, sinking inside him, starting slow.

Rain begins dripping outside; the sound of water droplets pelting through the redwood trees outside is the only accompaniment to the hushed sounds of their lovemaking.

Eric kisses like a dying man. Dylan tries to breath life back into him through tender kisses and velvet touches. 

Eric drags his thumb across Dylan's cheekbone. He picks up his pace, thrusting faster, harder, keeping Dylan pinned against the bed.

Dylan arches up underneath him, so deprived of Eric's affection that he's practically crying for it. It feels so good to take his share of kisses, to steal touch after touch. It feels so good to have this.

Eric makes sure Dylan comes first, jerking him off and watching him spill over his hand before wiping his hand on the bedsheets and fucking Dylan 'til kingdom come.

Spent, Eric releases inside Dylan with a throaty murmur, dropping his dead weight on top of Dylan and relaxing on top of him. 

Dylan's arms wrap around Eric’s body automatically, naturally wanting to pull him close. His weight on top of Dylan's comes as no burden; he feels comfortable and secure instead. They hold each other as the sound of their breathing evens out.

Both men are lying naked on top of the covers, sated, tangled in each other's arms, when Eric starts talking and doesn't stop.

"It was a Monday, I think. We were on patrol, like always. Like a hundred times before. One of the men in my troop triggered an IED, maybe it was an RPG - either way, something with a lethal blast range. I remember hitting the ground, but not the explosion. I couldn't remember anything else. I must have passed out," Eric swallows. "When I looked up, our troop was engaged in heavy combat. All I could hear were bullets and grenades and my ears ringing. I tried to run and my leg just felt heavy. I looked down and saw... red."

"Fuck," Dylan reacts, holding Eric a little bit tighter.

"I remember seeing another Marine. He grabbed me and we hauled ass to cover to wait out the firefight. I didn't... the next part is fuzzy. It's not all there. But somebody I don't know was asking me questions, and then they loaded us - the injured Marines - into armored vehicles. Someone checked me over and I tried to rest but they made me stay awake."

"Holy shit, Eric."

"Um..." Eric's voice wavers. Dylan strokes his thumb against Eric's collarbone, a delicate encouragement. "So after that was the hospital in Kandahar. Where I wrote you that letter."

Dylan nods.

"So they fixed up my leg in surgery and did a CT scan of my head to check for damage. But a CT scan only checks for bleeding, not any kind of long-term brain damage. It doesn't measure brain function."

Dylan blinks - Eric's never mentioned any of this before. Only his knee injury. _Brain damage?_

"I don't exactly remember the first day or two. The doctors gave me simple cognitive tests and I... I didn't pass them. It took a couple of days. I don't really remember it. But I remember... I remember staring at my feet. I couldn't get my boots off. I couldn't untie them. All I could picture was you untying my shoelaces,” Eric whispers. 

Dylan is anguished at Eric's recollection of how helpless he felt, how extremely powerless. He’s always hated picturing Eric holed up alone in the hospital in Kandahar, but this all seems more horrible than anything he’d imagined.

Eric sniffles and turns his face into Dylan's shoulder. "I'm a pussy. I'm a goddamn U.S. Marine, and I needed Dylan Klebold to untie my shoelaces."

Dylan's heart swells. He cradles Eric's jaw in his palm, forcing Eric to look him in the eye. "I will always untie your shoelaces," Dylan promises. "I would do _anything_ for you. Nothing else fucking matters."

Eric nods like he's hearing the sentiment for the first time. Dylan will say it as many times as it takes to get it through that thick skull of his. 

Eric’s eyes are raw and red, like he’s been crying, but without any tears. With his thumb, Dylan swipes away the two teardrops that do threaten to fall onto his cheek.

“It’s hard to talk about that stuff with someone who hasn’t experienced it,” Eric mutters. “If I don’t even know how I feel, how can I expect you to try?”

Gently, Dylan tugs him closer for a kiss, and there's something so soft and innocent about the way Eric's lips meet his that it feels like a first kiss. _Impossible._

"I love you," Eric says after they pull apart, and it's music to Dylan's ears. He can't remember the last time he heard those words come out of Eric's mouth. Eric says it again for good measure, the words melting into the darkness. “I love you.”

Dylan pulls Eric as close as he'll let him. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they drift off to sleep together.

*

For them, marriage isn’t legal for years, and it remains a hazy pinprick on the horizon despite the ring that never leaves Dylan’s finger. 

Less than twelve months after California starts issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples, Eric drags Dylan to Santa Cruz City Hall to keep his promise. Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold get married the morning of April 20, 2009, almost ten years to the day since the first time they kissed.

“I’m going to stand by you with honor, courage, and commitment. Oh fuck, even if this scares the shit out of me,” Eric says. “You’re mine.” With that, Eric takes the ring that he bought for Dylan almost a decade ago and places it back on Dylan’s hand, the silver band a familiar sight on his ring finger. Eric had sold his old Honda to pay for the ring after boot camp, finding it worth every penny to this day.

Dylan tries not to grin at Eric’s foul-mouthed wedding vow. This was just like Eric, and one of the many reasons he loves the other man. With shaking hands, he pulls a piece of spiral notebook paper out of his pocket.

“Eric,” he starts, getting momentarily distracted by the way Eric stares him down. “You are my everything. My halcyon. The meaning of life is to be loved by your love and you have given me the only meaning I’ll ever need.” Dylan folds up the paper and sticks it back in his pocket. “I’ll follow you fucking anywhere, Eric Harris,” he finishes. 

Dylan pulls an industrial-looking black wedding band from his pocket and slides it on to the ring finger of Eric’s left hand.

“Well, there you have it,” the officiant adds. “Eric Harris, Dylan Klebold; we now recognize you as married.”

Eric steps forward and grips Dylan’s neck with the hand wearing the ring, pulling him down for an open-mouthed kiss.

Santa Cruz City Hall is small and modest, but they pose for photographs in a stone archway outside the building after the ceremony. They cut a striking image standing side by side, Eric in his dress blues and Dylan in his best gray suit, both of them beaming with pride.

*

Dylan is unlocking the front door of their cabin when Eric comes barreling at Dylan before the taller man can realize what’s happening. Eric gets one hand around his waist and his other leg behind Dylan’s thigh in a running swoop, lifting him up off the ground and practically up onto Eric’s shoulder. Eric hoists his body through the open doorway, where they both fall to their knees inside their home.

Dylan clutches his stomach. “What the fuck was that?” he wheezes.

“Carrying you over the threshold,” Eric snickers, rolling over to check his husband for injuries. He runs his hands over Dylan as a cursory move, letting his touch become more gratuitous. 

Dylan starts to join him in uproarious laughter after realizing what Eric’s intentions were. His left hand closes over Eric’s left hand, their rings shining together where their fingers are clasped on Dylan’s chest.

Eric kisses him, a deep, open-mouthed kiss that leaves Dylan pink-cheeked and happy, then tugs him back up. “Come on. I’m not done with you yet, Mr. Harris,” Eric winks. Neither of them were actually changing their names, but Eric thinks the nickname might make Dylan feel a certain way, and sure enough, he flushes a little but lets Eric pull him to the bedroom.

Their room is pitch black. Dylan uses his hands to approximate Eric’s location, skimming his palms over Eric’s chest. He freezes when Eric reaches for Dylan’s tie, and starts letting Eric do all of the work.

Eric feels how still Dylan has gone, and a thrill runs down his spine. Eric loves whenever Dylan lets him play games, and that’s usually what this means, when he goes complacently still under Eric’s ministrations.

“Oh? Is that how you want it?” Eric teases, pulling Dylan’s tie loose and leaving it hanging around his neck. He makes quick work of the buttons on Dylan’s dress shirt, pushing his suit jacket off and leaving it forgotten on the floor.

After stripping Dylan out of his clothes, Eric takes the tie and winds it around Dylan’s neck. He can feel his husband straining for air, knows to listen for the way Dylan’s lips part when they struggle for oxygen. When he feels the familiar catch of Dylan’s breath, he releases his hold, spinning Dylan around to face the wall. 

Eric crowds Dylan against the wall, sticking his leg in between Dylan’s. He runs his nose against Dylan’s spine, stretching on his tiptoes to press a warm kiss to the base of Dylan’s neck. He fists his right hand in Dylan’s hair, hand tangled in Dylan’s groomed, blond curls, and yanks his neck to the most perfect, delicious angle. 

Eric bites down, using more pressure until he hears Dylan’s low, guttural moan. “I asked you a question,” Eric says. He twists Dylan’s hair in his fingers until Dylan starts making those little keens that send Eric’s stomach reeling. “I said, _is this how you want it_?” he repeats.

“Yes, sir,” Dylan responds finally, and Eric’s hand steers him toward the bed. Dylan crawls into place at Eric’s knees as Eric peels off his dress blues in a hurry and sits at the edge of the bed.

Eric pulls Dylan’s hands behind his back, taking Dylan’s tie and winding it around his skinny wrists. Eric loves the way Dylan - the way his _husband_ \- looks on his knees, wrapped up like a present.

Eric pushes the golden hair from Dylan’s neck before sitting back on his haunches to admire his husband. Overwhelmed by a sudden torrent of emotion, Eric takes Dylan’s face in his hands and presses a honeyed kiss to his mouth.

Dylan’s eyelids fall shut, and all Eric can think is how lucky he is, how long it’s taken them to get this far.

“You,” Eric breathes, dropping character. Dylan looks up at him, mystified. “You’re everything.”

Dylan’s cheeks flush pink, and Eric leans down to kiss him again, prying his mouth open with his tongue. Eric rakes his nails down Dylan’s side, delighting in the way he shivers.

Eric guides Dylan’s mouth to his cock, biting down a whimper when Dylan’s lips close around the head of his dick. Dylan is meek and slow at first, until Eric fists a hand in his hair.

“You can do better than that,” Eric growls.

So he does. After running his tongue across the head of Eric’s dick, Dylan opens his swollen, pink mouth wider, starts sucking at Eric desperately. The inside of his mouth is soft and warm, and Eric shudders when Dylan slides all the way down and pushes his nose into the dark, wiry hair at Eric’s groin.

Eric’s hips jerk, and he tenses and comes with a groan. Dylan laps at his cock, licking him clean.

Eric bends forward and kisses him anywhere he can reach, his hair, his forehead, the tip of his nose. Pulling the tie loose from his wrists, he spreads Dylan out on the bed, bending down and placing his head between Dylan’s legs. He takes Dylan in his mouth and gives him the sweetest blowjob he’s ever had in his life. 

The silence of the dark room is broken when Dylan comes with a moan.

Eric gestures for Dylan to wait with one finger, getting up to spit in the bathroom sink.

Dylan studies the outline of his body in the dark, easing against Eric’s bony side when he climbs back into their bed. He presses his hand against Eric’s heartbeat, delighted when Eric’s hand creeps up to cover his own. The wedding band adorning his finger is a new but welcome sight.

“Do you believe in happy endings?” Dylan asks introspectively.

“No,” Eric answers with a yawn. He leans his head against Dylan’s, sleep threatening to take them both. “Just fate.”


End file.
